>>2151493

Oops. Updating with trip.

>>2151493
>Examine your tombstone

>>2151493
>>Examine your tombstone

>>2151493
>>> Examine your tombstone
then
>> Run - this is FUCKED up

File: Tombstone Symbol.png (68 KB, 528x486)

68 KB PNG

>>2151511
>>2151542
>>2151590


You gather yourself today, eyes starting to focus in on the odd locale you find yourself in, and your gaze quickly lands on the tombstone from beneath which you've burst from the earth. Naked, covered in dirty and blood, you stumble forward and navigate the deep hole that was previously your final resting place. Kneeling by the vine covered tombstone, you begin frantically clawing away the overgrowth.

The stone is cold to touch, and surprisingly smooth. While you can see vague scrawlings on the other stones scattered around the clearing, this one remains free of any text or glyphs. You clear the entire stone of creepers and moss, revealing its perfectly polished face, and find nothing.

With frustration you stand, letting out a long sigh that burns your dried throat. Then something catches your eye.

Just beyond the tombstone, where the denseness of the forests begins once more, a single tree grabs at your attention. Facing where your final resting place now sits defiled, the tree itself has been marked - its trunk displays a symbol like you've never seen before, freshly carved into the timber. Dried saps runs trails down into the undergrowth from where the tree has been scarred.

The symbol, or perhaps just the cool breeze rushing through the trees, gives a sudden shiver down your spine. You're sure you've never encountered it before.

Yous stand there before the tree, alone, still catching your breath from the horrors of escaping your own grave. Naked, without memories or any idea of how you came to be in this place, you start to feel a tremendous terror spread through your aching body.

>> Head into the forest to find water, food, clothing
>> Further examine the tombstones
>> Write in

>>2151601
>> Carve the symbol in the ground

>>2151601
>>> Head into the forest to find water, food, clothing

>>2151601
>> Head into the forest to find water, food, clothing

>>2151601
>Head into the forest to find water, food, clothing

>>2151613
>>2151621
>>2151639


With no answers to gain from the eerie tombstones, you gather yourself and head into the trees, picking a direction at random. Now that you stop and pay attention you notice that the dense forest around you is alive with sound and movement - birds flutter between high branches and small creatures scuttle through the underground, spreading dry leaves and snapping loose twigs.

You wander for a short time, stumbling here and there as if your body is still waking up from a long slumber. The more lucidity you gain, the more pain you feel throughout your body. A particular sharp pain staggers you a few times, pulsating from a deep gash in your abdomen. When you stop to examine it the third time it winces you, a small stream of ochre liquid oozes forth from it.

You remember, painfully, the rusted metal of a short blade sliding into your flesh below the ribs. As it does, the rich smell of leather and musty paper floods your senses.

You fall to the ground sweating, the memory vivid in your mind's eye, and take a few moments to gather yourself. Were you murdered?

Another short spell of wandering through the trees brings a new sound to your ears - the not-so-distant trickle of water over rocks. Hastened by the prospect of moisture on your scarred lips you stumble further through the trees, ignoring the crashing sound you make through the undergrowth, and find yourself by a shallow stream that spins itself through the trees.

Crashing to the ground by the water's edge, ignoring the tiny fish swimming there, you shove your head into the clear water and relish the refreshing, stinging sensation that comes with the cleansing of your skin. You drink as much as you can, washing your naked body as well as you can, and soon feel alive with a second wind of replenished energy.

>> Search for something to eat
>> Try to construct some kind of way to carry the water
>> Follow the water, upstream
>> Follow the water, downstream
>> Write in

>>2151653
> Follow the water, upstream

>>2151653
>>> Follow the water, downstream

>>2151653
Can we put on some leaves or vines to cover up our junk temporarily till we find clothes?
afterwards
>> Follow the water, downstream
and hope that we find people

>>2151668
>>2151679

Refreshed and filled with renewed energy, you set about finding some way to cover yourself - at least your modesty - before setting off. Unable to fashion any foot covers to protect your feet, you at least manage to find some large enough fern leaves which are easily roped together with some vines and crawlers to assemble a simple loincloth.

With hunger and thirst pangs both offset by a stomach full of water, at least for now, you set off - if you're going to make any sense of the afternoon's events, or find answers at all, you'll need to find people. Following the water downstream is surely a good way to start.

The water trickles slowly, barely on a decline, but the ground at your feet does start to lose elevation as the minute tick by. You walk briskly with replenished hope. Your body aches still, but the pain is manageable - nothing compared to the horror that followed your initial rebirth from the grave.

Time begins to tick by more quickly and the ground at your feet starts to drop. All around the thick forests begins to thin out. Overhead the sun is starting it's own descend and you can feel the coolness of dusk setting in. Were it not for your fast pace, you suspect the evening cold would have you in shivers by now.

After several hours of following the water, blisters growing on your feet and legs still aching with lethargy, the ground evens out and the small stream grows to a much wider river - perhaps a dozen feet across, though still quite shallow.

Ahead, beyond the treeline of the forest, you spot open grassland bordered by hills. Some of the open space grows much taller than the rest, surrounded by a short wooden fence. A farm.

The sun is dipping behind a distant horizon when you leave the trees behind, and the soft glow of firelight illuminates the figure of a farmhouse ahead, nestled against the river bank.

>> Approach in the open and make yourself known - there's nothing more to fear
>> Approach with caution, keeping to the shadows, and investigate the homestead
>> Scavenge the fields for supper and then leave
>> Circumnavigate the entire farm - you can't trust anyone right now

>>2151725
> Approach with caution, keeping to the shadows, and investigate the homestead

>>2151725
>> Approach with caution, keeping to the shadows, and investigate the homestead

>>2151725
>> Approach with caution, keeping to the shadows, and investigate the homestead

We need to get a look at ourselves.

>>2151735
>>2151743
>>2151744

You approach the homestead as quietly as possible, branching away from the stream and heading toward the overgrown field. From here, vaulting the short fence quite easily, you skulk through the large grass-like crops toward the homestead. The wind is keeping up, be it light, and it disguises any rash movement you make as you move through the tall growths. Ahead you can still see the silhouette of the structure and move ever closer, keeping low. By the time you near the edge of the field, an open courtyard between you and the building, the sun has well and truly set.

The small dirt yard extends from the fields edge to the homestead. The building itself is modest, though sturdy, and has a second floor and a small balcony attached. Most of it's wind shutters are still open and the glow of light shimmers out into the yard, accompanied by the sweet aroma of cooking from within.

By the front door of the building, which is open, stands a small figure. His features are disguised from the harsh light flowing from behind him, though he is quite short and wears the figure of a wide brimmed hat on his head. He is idling near the front door, looking toward another small shed right on the river's edge, and above the rustling of the crops in the wind you hear him whistling quietly.

>> Break from the crops and greet the small man
>> Leave, as quietly as possible
>> Continue to watch and wait for a moment to sneak closer
>> Write in

>>2151813
>Break from the crops and greet the small man

>>2151813
>> Break from the crops and greet the small man
We should've looked at our reflection in the river, but it's too late for that now

>>2151813
>> Write in
Go to the backyard and see if they have any clothes hanging which you can put on.

>>2151813
>Break from the crops and greet the small man Well...in for a penny.

>>2151829
>>2151841
>>2151846

You take a deep breath and step forward, easily vaulting over the short fence that surrounds the crops, and make your way into the small dirt courtyard. You approach slowly, wary of casting too hostile a figure, but move toward the man all the same. He doesn't notice you immediately, still whistling toward the small shed as if summoning someone or something.

Sure enough, after a few more moments, a large hound comes casually trotting toward the man, answering his beckons. It must have been across the river or somewhere down near the bank as you hadn't seen any other movement on your approach.

As the creature begins to slow to a more casual speed, tongue lolling in post-hunt contentment, it's ears suddenly prick up and you see the creature's entire body tense. The short man drops to a squat, ready to greet to the creature, but he too tenses up as the hound begins to growl and quicken its pace. It's spotted you, first from scent and then visually as you get nearer to the light shed from the homestead.

Worried, the small man jumps back up to his feet, turning to face you with wide eyes. You're a mere twenty feet away by the time he spots the approaching figure.

What does he see?

>> A short, muscly man with scars across his face, a bald head, and a long beard still matted with dirt
>> A slim woman with slight features and short blonde hair
>> A hulking beast of a man, nearly seven feet tall, with sharp fangs and almost black eyes
>> A young, elegant looking boy, almost as short as the old farmer, with slightly pointed ears and a light purple complexion
>> A well built woman of dark skin and bright blue hair, exotic tattoos spreading the entirety of her left arm
>> Write in

>>2151912
>>> A well built woman of dark skin and bright blue hair, exotic tattoos spreading the entirety of her left arm

Unusual shiz.

>>2151912
>A hulking beast of a man, nearly seven feet tall, with sharp fangs and almost black eyes

>>2151912
>A hulking beast of a man, nearly seven feet tall, with sharp fangs and almost black eyes

>>2151912
>Write in
>> man, six feet tall with minor scars across his face.

>>2151912
>A hulking beast of a man, nearly seven feet tall, with sharp fangs and almost black eyes

>>2151921
>>2151959
>>2151978

From the shadows you appear, a great figure that casts an even greater shadow across the courtyard behind you. In comparison, the small man is probably less than half your height and almost seems to shrink further as he acknowledges your presence. The hound, while almost as tall as the man, still slows its approach as it acknowledges the sheer presence of the new figure. The animal keeps its teeth bared, a low growl rumbling from within, but suffices with planting itself immobile beside its owner, hoping the situation might be disarmed some other way.

"Please... we have nothing of value here... please just take what you want." The man's words shake as they exit his quivering lips. From your closer vantage point you can now make out some of his features - while small, he's definitely elderly, a wrinkled face long worn by the sun to be a dark leathery brown. He leans on a cane and wears a set of overalls with holes a plenty. He's shoeless.

You take a step forward, considering his words, which sound surprisingly familiar to your ears - is this the language of your people?

>> You pat your chest awkwardly. "Broken." There's sincerity in your eyes.
>> "Good sir, I wish you no harm. It's been, frankly... quite the afternoon. I only seek a place to rest and gather my thoughts." You offer him a smile.
>> You roar with fury and charge the old man, ignoring the blood lust of his companion hound, hands outstretched.
>> "No... please... I need help." Weakness sways you and you struggle to keep your footing.
>> Write in

>>2152030
> You pat your chest awkwardly. "Broken." There's sincerity in your eyes.

>>2152030
>You pat your chest awkwardly. "Broken." There's sincerity in your eyes.

>>2152030
>You pat your chest awkwardly. "Broken." There's sincerity in your eyes.

>>2152037
>>2152050
>>2152060

>> You pat your chest awkwardly. "Broken." There's sincerity in your eyes.

An awkward silence follows. The dog continues to growl in a low tone, legs planted firmly as it awaits the battle royale that's sure to follow. The man, though, holds his ground. The look of fear on his face has changed to confused caution and, convinced that this hulking figure isn't about to charge forth, he takes a few moments to examine you. His eyes rest for a short time on the deep wound to your stomach, which reminds you of it's presence and sends a short burning sensation up through your abdomen.

"Goodness." The old man wipes his brow, eyes still squinting in confusion as he continues to assess the situation. Absently he leans over to stroke the nape of the large hound. It relaxes, just slightly.

"Where do you come from, stranger? Look's like you've walked from hell itself." His eyes dart back to your wounds again. "Are you hurt?" As he speaks you notice the quiet arrival of another stout figure, silhouetted in the glowing doorway of the homestead. A woman you guess, from the shadow of her flowing hair, watches on. She does not say a thing, but braces herself with one hand against the door frame as if ready to flee.

>> "Not know. Forest." Words failing you as you struggle with the local tongue, you point toward the tree dotted hill where your tombstone is hidden.
>> "I... I do not know. It has been a long day and my body aches. I fear I was waylaid by brigands while travelling the forest." The story comes naturally to you.
>> "Yes. All over. Wounds of battle plague me, sir. I need to rest." Who turns away a wounded soldier?
>>"Hell indeed. I fear I stand before you only recent risen from my own grave." A nervous laugh follows.
>> Write in

>>2152213
>"Not know. Forest." Words failing you as you struggle with the local tongue, you point toward the tree dotted hill where your tombstone is hidden.

>>2152213
>"Not know. Forest." Words failing you as you struggle with the local tongue, you point toward the tree dotted hill where your tombstone is hidden.

>>2152213
>> "Not know. Forest." Words failing you as you struggle with the local tongue, you point toward the tree dotted hill where your tombstone is hidden.

>>2152213
>"Not know. Forest." Words failing you as you struggle with the local tongue, you point toward the tree dotted hill where your tombstone is hidden
Hivemind is strong with this quest

>>2152252
Gotta get thru chargen intact before we start trying to split our votes

>>2152223
>>2152240
>>2152246
>>2152252

The people know what they want!

>> "Not know. Forest." Words failing you as you struggle with the local tongue, you point toward the tree dotted hill where your tombstone is hidden.

The old man nods, as if this all makes sense to him, but remains silent for a few more moments of though. The cold evening breeze bellows across the courtyard, bringing slight shivers to your great frame, and the man shifts from one foot to the other as he contemplates the scene before him.

"Drisken..?" The quiet voice barely breaks over the wind, coming from the front door of the homestead, and the old man swings his gaze around quickly to see the woman standing there. He picks his words carefully.

"A traveller, dear. He looks not well at all. We've got spare linens, don't we?" The trepidation in his voice is thick and a very obvious tension fills the air between the two, a couple you easily dice up to be man and wife. Surprisingly, after what seems like an eternity of a pause, the woman chokes out a response as she steps back into the homestead.

"Of course. Yes. A traveller." The old man turns to you and gives a very nervous smile, gesturing to the front door (which is a good foot or two shorter than you are). He takes a few steps closer to you and nods, as if speaking to a child or to a foreign ear. "Please. It's cold out, this time of the season. You've already been through enough, by the looks of you - don't need to freeze, too." He gestures again to the door.

>> Enter the homestead, ducking low to clear the threshold
>> Point to the shed instead, questioningly - you don't know these people and you can't trust them, but you need shelter
>> Write in

>>2152317
> Enter the homestead, ducking low to clear the threshold

>>2152317
>>> Enter the homestead, ducking low to clear the threshold

>>2152317
>> Enter the homestead, ducking low to clear the threshold

>>2152317
>Enter the homestead, ducking low to clear the threshold

>>2152341
>>2152349
>>2152351

You enter through the doorway, eyeing the small man the entire time, searching for any sign that you had misunderstood the invitation. He just continues to smile, ushering the large hound out of your path, and follows you into the small home.

While the doorway is small, you're still able to stand fully within the entrance hall - the roof is high, at least for the stout owners, and you're immediately grateful to be out of the chilling night air.

The entire bottom floor of the homestead is open, split into only two rooms with a partial wall dividing them. Through an entryway to your left you see a small kitchen where the woman has returned - she watches you through the entryway, hands idling stirring a large pot that is suspended over a fireplace as she stares at the visitor invading her home. The man, supposedly named Drisken, leans his cane against the wall by the door as he bolts it shut, removing his wide brimmed hat.

The rest of the large room you're in is open - a narrow staircase in the back leads upstairs, while a small dining table with four chairs sits in the middle of the room. Nearby is a fireplace, warmth billowing from its open hearth, and a few large, comfortable chairs are tucked into another corner where a short bookshelf is stocked with old leather bound volumes.

"This is, uh... my home. Please, rest yourself." Drisken gestures toward one of the large armchairs, glossing over the fact that you probably wouldn't fit on one of the dining chairs. With little reluctance you collapse into the large fabric envelope of softness and your muscles let out a sigh of relief. You're suddenly on the brink of sleep, almost instantaneously, as the emotional fatigue of the past half-day catches you up.

The old man disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes, hushed conversation echoing throughout the small home, and soon returns with a ceramic mug of warm water and a round wooden plate with a few hunks of bread and a wedge of yellow cheese. He places the plate beside you, offering the mug forward. It smells sweet, as if infused with flowers.

"Tea, for your mind and your wounds. And food." His words are awkward - he's beginning to realise this guest is not a local of these lands.

"Do you... to where are you travelling, my guest?"

>> Suddenly overcome by hunger, you eat and drink without words or etiquette.
>> "Not know. Buried." You gnaw at the cheese suspiciously, having never encountered such a substance before.
>> "Sleep. Then travel." You nod, as if that answers the question.
>> "Long way." You point to the ground. "Not home."
>> You just stare at Drisken questioningly.
>> You ignore the question, pointing to the bookshelf as you chew your food. "Books. Bad." You touch one hand to the gash in your stomach.
>> Write in

>>2152439
>> "Long way." You point to the ground. "Not home."

>>2152439
>> "Long way." You point to the ground. "Not home."

>>2152439
>> "Long way." You point to the ground. "Not home."

>>2152439
>"Long way." You point to the ground. "Not home."

>>2152439
>> "Long way." You point to the ground. "Not home."
Too bad he won't get our joke

>>2152454
>>2152458
>>2152461
>>2152468
>>2152479

This leaves Drisken quiet for the duration of your meal. He just watches you, seated across the room on one of the wooden dining chairs, as the woman potters around in the kitchen out of sight. The old man scratches his head, multiple times opening his mouth to speak and then deciding against it.

When the bread and cheese is gone, the sweet tea too, you feel a kind of contentment fall over you as Drisken moves about the room and brings you a collection of small, woollen blankets and towels to cover yourself in. With the new coverings draped around your shoulder and across your legs, and the nearby fire crackling away, you find a peacefulness you feel you haven't experience in years.

A short while after the woman returns tot he room and the pair of them sit by the dining table, slurping at small bowls of steaming soup. Drisken offers you one, though your stomach is surprisingly full and you swat his approaches away as you mellow in the contentment of a safe place. The mealtime passes in tense silence and after, once the table has been cleared, the old woman smiles nervously to you before retiring upstairs. Drisken remains, producing an old pipe, and joins you by the fireside as he ignites a bitter smelling weed.

"A strange path you walk, visitor." He nods thoughtfully, as unravelling some great conspiracy in his mind. No prophetic statements follow, though - he just looks to you and shrugs. Before long you find a heavy sleepiness fall over you and the last memory you hold is the old man checking the bolted front door before heading upstairs, leaving you to rest in the glow of the dying embers.

Your rest is not a peaceful one. You are restless, plagued by dreams of...

>> Crackling magic and burning flesh
>> An open, bloody battlefield filled with gore and soot
>> The screaming of women and children, the crackling of flames
>> A dark maze of cold stone and hellish fiends

>>2152580
> The screaming of women and children, the crackling of flames

>>2152580
>Crackling magic and burning flesh

>>2152580
>> The screaming of women and children, the crackling of flames

>>2152580
>An open, bloody battlefield filled with gore and soot

>>2152606
>>2152590

You watch a field roar to life, flames licking all over as homes nearby crumble into ashes. Screams echo on the wind, of pain and of war, as the village around you is decimated by bloodshed. You see the faces of the fallen and falling - women and children and men, once close to your heart and now long dead. Their bodies desecrated, all you hold dear burning and torn to pieces. A great darkness engulfs the entirety of all you once knew.

You start awake in the early hours of the morning, roaring in an almost animalistic way. That the sound would catch the other occupants of the small home is an understatement, giving you a quick moment of surprise to take in the scene unfolding before you - something was definitely amiss.

Still dark outside, the main living room is lit only by the very lightly glowing embers of the fireplace. The front door of the homestead is open wide, a light breeze issuing through, accompanied by the dull glow of starlight. By the door, in a bloody heap, is the large hound Drisken had left outside before bolting the portal closed hours before.

The door itself is busted open, a large gash cut through the metal bolt that once held it solidly in place.

Around the room are four figures - tall and gritty, all men and all wearing armour of animal hides and leather. They're all fierce, hairy looking individuals, sweeping through the small home without pause or respect.

By the stairs one of the figures is pulling Drisken from midway up the stairs, hurling the old man to the floor with a snarl.

Regardless of the old man, the scene sends a rage through you as you leap up from the armchair, covered only by a loose towel wrapped around your shoulders and the makeshift loin coverings you fashioned the day before. The four figures, each in different states of abuse or pillaging, pause at the sudden roar and commotion from the corner of the room.

You eye each in an instant, picking a target and a way forward.

>> You charge the man by the front door - his bow is the perfect weapon if you can wrangle it from his back.
>> You charge for the man towering over Drisken, eyes glistening at the sight of his hand axe.
>> You go for the closest man, sure you can wrestle the short blade from him without too much trouble.
>> Bare hands clenched, you charge the closest target - nothing trumps the power of you fists.
>> Though you can't explain it, you trust in a quiet energy dwelling within you, and charge toward the closest target with palms outstretched.

>>2152682
>Though you can't explain it, you trust in a quiet energy dwelling within you, and charge toward the closest target with palms outstretched.

>>2152682
> Though you can't explain it, you trust in a quiet energy dwelling within you, and charge toward the closest target with palms outstretched.

>>2152682
>Though you can't explain it, you trust in a quiet energy dwelling within you, and charge toward the closest target with palms outstretched.

>>2152682
>>> Though you can't explain it, you trust in a quiet energy dwelling within you, and charge toward the closest target with palms outstretched.

>>2152767
>>2152743
>>2152697
>>2152689

With burning eyes you charge forward toward the closest target before he has a chance to react - all around the room eyes land on you and the brigands begin to yell to one another. For the young man right before you, short bladed sword in hand, the realisation of a new party in the conflict comes too late.

You land upon your prey with sudden agility and brute force, slamming one fist into the side of his face. Unprepared for the blow the man splutters to the floor, almost leaving his feet from the force of the thrown punch, and lands in a heap a few feet from you. He cries out in pain, scrambling for the sword he's dropped and blood flows from a clearly indented cheek. All around, in response to the brutality, the other brigands start screaming and charge toward you. From the corner of your eye you see Drisken take the chance to begin crawling across the room, under the dining table.

You bring both hands up, letting energy flow through your body, and a warmth that feels so familiar yet unfamiliar all at once begins to flow down your arms and to your hands. You can feel what's coming, and you don't hold back.

The man on the floor screams in agony as purple sparks issue from your palms. An arrow slams into your thigh and you ignore the sting of its bite. The display of pure force issuing from your hands stops the other brigands in their tracks, though the shooter prepares another arrow, fear stricken.

You step forward, clasping an invisible force in your hands as the purple energy continues to flow between you and the man on the floor before you. You try to clasp your open hands together, as if pushing together a boulder or some iron kettle between your two hands. The force is immense, despite there being nothing but air before you. The man on the floor disbands his sword, clasping hands against the sides of his head, screaming in a guttural tone like a wounded animal.

"Kill him! Kill hiiiiimm!" The words explode from the man's mouth with a spray of blood. His comrades, shaken from what they are witnessing, charge forward with weapons ready. They're almost upon you when the deed is done - the struggle ends. You can feel what's coming. The rush of energy through you hits its zenith and for a moment you feel invincible, harnessing a power far beyond anything you've ever felt.

Then you hands clap together. The purple energy explodes all around you.

With a sickening crunch and splatter, the man on the ground has his screams silenced abruptly as his skull caves in. Blood and bits of flesh splash against the floorboards.

Everyone freezes.

>> You turn to the next assailant without missing a beat, forcing this newfound energy on him
>> You roar like a wild animal, relishing in the kill
>> You roar, pointing to the door, and scream 'OUT!"
>> Write in

>>2152806
>> You turn to the next assailant without missing a beat, forcing this newfound energy on him

>>2152806
> You roar, pointing to the door, and scream 'OUT!"

>>2152806
>> You roar, pointing to the door, and scream 'OUT!"

>>2152806
>You roar, pointing to the door, and scream 'OUT!"

>>2152825
>>2152832
>>2152835

> You roar, pointing to the door, and scream 'OUT!"

Very promptly, all three remaining intruders oblige. Within half a minute the atmosphere of confusion and combat turns to nothing and the homestead is left quiet, save for the open front door blowing in the evening wind.

In the center of the room is a bloody mess where a young man had one stood. His sword lay nearby.

Drisken crawls out from under the dining table, having witnessed the entire showdown, and dusts himself off as he rises to his feet. His face is bruised, but otherwise he seems to be in reasonable condition. Appraising you, eyes wide, he grips the corner of the wooden table for support, soaking up what he's just witnessed.

>> You leave - with your true power shown, there's no home for you here.
>> You begin cleaning up, dragging the deceased man out into the yard before searching his body.
>> "You're welcome." You say to Drisken, before heading to the kitchen to clean yourself off.
>> You collapse back into the armchair, staring at your hands, and look to the old man for answers.
>> Write in.

>>2152899
>> "Not problem." You say to Drisken, before heading to the kitchen to clean yourself off.

>>2152899
>You begin cleaning up, dragging the deceased man out into the yard before searching his body.

>>2152899
>You begin cleaning up, dragging the deceased man out into the yard before searching his body.

>>2152899
> You begin cleaning up, dragging the deceased man out into the yard before searching his body.

>>2152924
>>2152938
>>2152969

>You begin cleaning up, dragging the deceased man out into the yard before searching his body.

The morning is ready to dawn as you drag the young man's corpse out of the homestead. The air is still cool, fresh against your skill, and the hills are quiet and dark. You drag the corpse a short way from the farmhouse, a safe distance from the river, and then head to the small shed. There are numerous farm tools here, including a few sturdy shovels, and you get to work digging a shallow grave.

As you dig, you notice Drisken standing in the courtyard, watching and smoking his pipe. He says nothing and keeps his distance. A dull light glows from an upstairs window.

Before pushing the mutilated man's body into the shallow hole you pat him down, assessing his clothes - a tight fit for your large frame, but they'll do. At least the pants give you some modesty.

In his pockets you find very little - a few copper and silver coins, the likes of which you do not remember seeing before, and two small leather wraps; one filled with dried fruit, the other with dried herbs for smoking. Relieving the dead home invader of his clothes and the few belongings he had, donning the pants and a threadbare vest, you kick the body into the grave and pile a few shovels worth of soil atop it. Breathing heavily, you leave the shovel buried in the ground by the small mound and start back toward the farmhouse. Drisken greets you with serious eyes.

"That boy. The flashing lights. Do you know what you did?" His words sound fearful, but his face is almost sorrowful. He takes a long drag from the pipe before holding it up to you, barely reaching higher than your elbows.

>> "Power. From long ago." You take the pipe, unsure of what to do with it.
>> You just shake your head. "Bad man."
>> You shrug, looking at your palms before accepting the pipe and taking a mouthful of bitter smoke. "Keep me safe."
>> You point at the farmhouse, then at Drisken. "Protect."
>> Write in.

>>2153065
>> You point at the farmhouse, then at Drisken. "Protect."

>>2153065
>You point at the farmhouse, then at Drisken. "Protect

>>2153065
>> You point at the farmhouse, then at Drisken. "Protect."

>>2153065
>You point at the farmhouse, then at Drisken. "Protect."

>>2153073
>>2153086
>>2153091
>>2153092

Drisken just nods to this, then steps aside as if to allow you passage back into the homestead. As you proceed he walks slowly behind you, blowing great puffs of acrid smoke before extinguishing his pipe. Back inside the old man's wife has prepared a great tub of water and is scrubbing the floor where the young man was slain. Most of the refuse is gone, though a dark red stain remains in the wood. The corpse of the big hound is nowhere to be seen, though the floor by door is marked by a similar stain.

You take a seat, getting used to the newly acquired clothes, as the old woman finishes her work and Drisken takes a seat beside you. The pair of you brew more tea, in silence, and soon there are rays of morning sunlight breaking through the unshuttered windows of the homestead.

"A strange power it is. I've never seen something like it before." Drisken sits quiet, thinking for a few moments, before turning to you. "The marking on your back - do you know what it means?"

He reads your confused look accurately and raises an eyebrow. Eventually he wanders across the room and grabs some parchment from a shelf. It's marked with mismatched scrawlings and sketches. Finding a blank section, he quickly reproduces a familiar symbol with a sharpened piece of charcoal. You recognise it quickly, before he's finished the work, and reach over your shoulder. Under your new vest you can feel the scars - a fresh, intricately drawn burn, the same shape you saw the previous day carved into a tree by the tombstones.

"This. I have not seen it before, but it's very delicate. Deliberate. Do you not remember where you got the mark?" He takes a seat once more.

You do remember, now, feeling the scarred tissue near your shoulder blade. The memory is segmented, borken, but you remember the searing pain. You were already dying by the time the symbol was burned to your flesh, bleeding and badly wounded. A cloaked man, with dark fingernails. A rusted dagger. It was all planned, you're sure.

>> With broken words, you tell Drisken what you remember.
>> You shrug, shaking your head.
>> "Family." You say simply - there's no need for this old farmer to worry on your woes.
>> Write in.

Have to take a bit of a break, should be back a little later if anyone's around

>>2153279
>> "Family." You say simply - there's no need for this old farmer to worry on your woes.

>>2153279
> With broken words, you tell Drisken what you remember.

>>2153279
>With broken words, you tell Drisken what you remember

>>2153279
>"Family." You say simply - there's no need for this old farmer to worry on your woes.

>>2153279
>> With broken words, you tell Drisken what you remember.

>>2153279
>>> With broken words, you tell Drisken what you remember.

>>2153298
>>2153303
>>2153348
>>2153375

>> With broken words, you tell Drisken what you remember.

Following the short story the old man stays mute, listening intently for what comes next. When he realises that the story has concluded, that there is no narrative taking you from the night of your 'murder' to his front door, he simply leans back in his arm chairs and reflects on the rising sun.

"A true mystery you are, traveller. Something special, there's no doubt, but a mystery nonetheless..." He gestures around the ramshackle home, to his wife and to the small farm beyond the windowsill. "This is not a place of mystery, friend. It's not a place for answers." He stares at the red stains on the floor for a few moments, lamenting in the events of the night gone by.

"You... did a great service, protecting me and my home here. Those men... I don't know what they deserved, or what they sought, but I'm grateful for your help nonetheless." He rises from the chair, suddenly full of resolve, and heads to the front door where a collection of bags and baskets and coats are hanging. He picks out the largestof the leather satchels, nodding in contentment in his choice, and shuffles into the kitchen.

"You deserve answers, if you so seek them. An old farmer and his home will hold none, but I can at least send you toward them. I can try, that is." He re-enters the living area as you rise from the armchair, still feeling foreign in the new clothes. The large leather satchel he holds is now stuffed with goods - leather wraps and some spare cloth, a couple of water-skins, a wrapped loaf of bread and some dried meat.

"Yarwood is further down the river, just after the bend. Keep the water to your shoulder..." he uses his cane to gently tap your right shoulder, "... and you'll find it. Small town, nothing special, but definitely a place of answers." He holds the old bag out to you with a genuine smile.

>> You take the bag and nod, heading for the door and the road beyond
>> You shake your head. "Questions, still." (Write in).
>> "Friend." You take the bag and return the smile, waving politely, naturally, as you take your leave.
>> Write in.

>>2153613
>"Friend." You take the bag and return the smile, waving politely, naturally, as you take your leave.

>>2153613
>> "Friend." You take the bag and return the smile, waving politely, naturally, as you take your leave.
>>"Be well."

>>2153618
>>2153619

>> "Friend." You take the bag and return the smile, waving politely, naturally, as you take your leave. "Be well."

As you leave both Drisken and his wife watch you go, standing by the front door of the old homestead as you head off through the fields. The river rushes in the morning light, heading off to the south, and the morning air is sweet and alive. It's been less than a day since you awoke from under the soil of the forest graveyard, gasping for life and left for dead. Now you wander with little direction, but a new friend, and more questions that you started with.

The road, no more than a dirty path roughly following the river bank, is easy enough to stick to. The river runs through small valleys between the landscapes hills and small thickets of trees offer shade here and there. The sun is bright, yet not awfully warm, and you deduce the days must be starting to get shorter and colder. There is a seasonal change coming - you can feel it in the air, hear it in the wildlife. This land, foreign as it may be, synchronises to something inside you, something you can't tap or understand yourself.

With enough supplies to keep you fed, fresh water a-plenty from the river, and a thick blanket to keep you warm at night, the journey south to Yarwood is relatively uneventful. It is on the four day of your travels, with clouds hanging low and dark in the sky, that you meet another traveller on the road. Ahead, pulled to one side with a low campfire burning, you see at least two figures and a wagon. The wagon is roped to two large beasts, likely herd animals you think, and is covered with canvas wraps.

The afternoon is getting long winded and you suspect night, and potential rain, will fall soon. You suspect these travellers are setting up for an evening by the roadside.

>> Pass by without a word or incident - civilisation lays ahead, and hopefully with it, answers
>> Approach the travellers cautiously - maybe they have something to trade
>> Approach the travellers with brute force - maybe they have something worth taking!
>> Write in.

>>2153658
>> Approach the travellers cautiously - maybe they have something to trade
Don't think we have anything they'll want, but it's worth a shot

>>2153658
> Slow down, look for a bit, see how they react. If they aren't hostile, perhaps you can parley with them. "Bad rain?"

>>2153658
>Approach the travellers cautiously - maybe they have something to trade

>>2153664
>>2153709

Thinking the situation over, you eventually saunter closer to the small parked cart and make yourself known. On approach the figures don't seem of any harm to you - both are humans, much smaller than you, and dressed in similar tunics and cloaks. As you make an entrance, one of the young men is kneeling by the small campfire, skinning some small animal, and the other is jostling things about in the back of the cart.

Seeing the hulking figure on the dirt road approach, the second back behind the cart turns to face you. For a few moments his hand sits steadily on the hilt of a short blade by his thigh, but as you approach more calmly he relaxes a little, resting one hand on his hip and the other on the side of the cart. Once you're within earshot he smiles warmly.

"Well you're a big fella. Well met, traveller." He's got a youthful face and short, straw coloured hair. Maybe only a lad of twenty. The second man, a little older with similar features, rises from his place by the fireplace. The pair could be related, save for the more weather worn face of the older man.

"What brings you this way? Headed for town? We're just making a place to rest for the night." The younger of the two continues to speak, gesturing to their cart.

>> You tap your chest, per the day previous. "Broken". What else could you be called?
>> You rummage through the small satchel Drisken gave you and produce the coins taken from the slain brigand. "Rest?"
>> You point to the cart. "Swap?"
>> Write in

>>2155468
>You point to the cart. "Swap?"
Let see what they hsve.

>>2155468
>> You point to the cart. "Swap?"
I work too much to be an active player mostly, but I'm enjoying this so far op

>>2155468
>You point to the cart. "Swap?"

>>2155677
>>2155750

>>2155742
Thanks anon. I work too much to be an active QM, but here's trying!

>> You point to the cart. "Swap?"

The young man gives you a quizzical glance, but then smiles and ushers you closer. The elder of the pair closes the distance, too, and both of the travellers invite you forward to examine their wagon. As you near, the older man pulls off one of the large, draping canvases to reveal neatly packed goods below - tools and weapons, blankets and food, home wares that you can only assume belong in some beacon of civilisation somewhere.

The choice is overwhelming and having so many options at your disposal merits the question - what is it, exactly, that you need in this new life of yours?

>> Introducing... YOUR INVENTORY

// BROKEN'S Inventory

[12] Silver Coins
[16] Copper Coins

[2] Waterskins
[1] Winter Blanket
[2] Wheels of cheese
[1] Loaf of bread
[4] Day rations (dried meat and nuts)
[1] Bread knife


// TRADER'S Inventory

[2] Short Swords (25 silver)
[1] Composite Bow (35 silver)
[1] Short Bow (10 silver)
[3] Scimitars (30 silver)
[1] Hand axe (12 silver)
[2] Set of Leather Armour (20 silver)
[18] Day rations (dried meat and nuts) (8 copper)
[5] Glass bottles (empty, stoppered) (5 silver)
[3] Winter blankets (3 silver)

>> Write in any questions you have, or any proposals you'd like to make for trade. Prices are indicative and relate to 1 unit. 'Broken' understands the concept of bartering.

>>2155853
I suggest
>Short bow
For hunting
>1 winter blanket
We're a big guy
Maybe barter it down a bit by trading a wheel of cheese

>>2155853
See if we can get an axe for 10 silver.

>>2155916
>>2155925

You analyse the goods for some time, picking up some of the weapons and examining them. The entire time the older of the pair watches you carefully, while the younger man riffs a constant barrage of sales pitches - according to the young merchant, everything you touch is 'a fine choice'. Eventually, though, your eyes rest on only a handful of items.

The short hand axe is polished and new, possibly never used. It'll be perfect for both combat and for chopping wood. The short bow, blemished and shabby, is still in working order. It feels like a miniature in your hands, but regardless of the size it'll still shoot true. The blankets are threadbare, nothing compared to the hand knitted blanket Drisken left you, but warm nonetheless.

You gather the three items to one side, wordlessly, and shuffle a few coins out of your bag. All in all there are 20 small pieces that you stack neatly on the side of the cart - 10 silver, 10 copper. Beside them, as if you're unsure the deal will be struck without another vital bargaining chip, you slide forth a round wheel of fresh cheese from the farm.

Character decisions moving on will impact stat and skill generation - for example, this one is about your way in dealing with others. Choose wisely - Broken can't be a jack of ALL trades, so being great at one thing will surely mean a weakness somewhere else in his character.

>> After a long think the young man nods in agreement, scooping up the coins. He offers you back the wheel of cheese. "Wouldn't be right, leaving a nomad like yerself to go hungry on the road."
>> The young man reluctantly takes the offering, cheese and all, with a nod from the older man. "Consider yourself lucky, friend. Business is slow in these parts."
>> The older man steps forward with a gruff look in his eyes. "Prices aren't negotiable, big one. The axe, or the bow and blanket. One or the other for those silver coins there." (Choose)

>>2156116
>> The young man reluctantly takes the offering, cheese and all, with a nod from the older man. "Consider yourself lucky, friend. Business is slow in these parts."

>>2156116
>The young man reluctantly takes the offering, cheese and all, with a nod from the older man. "Consider yourself lucky, friend. Business is slow in these parts."

>>2156183
>>2156238

>> The young man reluctantly takes the offering, cheese and all, with a nod from the older man. "Consider yourself lucky, friend. Business is slow in these parts."

You nod, graciously, and gather up your new belongings - the bow tucks neatly between the leather satchel lung over one shoulder, and the axe hangs by your side. It feels good, almost familiar, to know you've got a tools of protection so close at hand.

Shaking your hand and pocketing the coins, the younger of the pair of merchants begins once more tightening up the protective canvases of the wagon. The older man shakes your hand, giving a hardy nod, before returning to the fireside where a small animal is sitting, half skinned. The embers glow hot and you can almost smell the aroma the cooking meat will soon flood the campsite with.

Beyond the small roadside pitstop you admire the dirt path as it snakes further south, around small hilly outcrops, always keeping the river close by. You have no way to judge just how far this small town of Yarwood is.

>> You approach the fire, gesturing to the fresh meat. "Cook? Share."
>> You wave, as seems customary to these people, and begin on your way - there are still a few hours of good hiking left today.
>> Write in.

>>2156312
>You wave, as seems customary to these people, and begin on your way - there are still a few hours of good hiking left today.

>>2156312
>You wave, as seems customary to these people, and begin on your way - there are still a few hours of good hiking left today.

>>2156312
>>> You wave, as seems customary to these people, and begin on your way - there are still a few hours of good hiking left today.

Quest live please?